Five Years in Beta

Chapter 1: The Day I Quit

by Ethan Cole

I thought quitting would feel like flying.
It didn’t.
It felt like leaping off a cliff on University Avenue, Palo Alto’s heart beating with startups and dreams, hoping I’d land somewhere other than the pavement.

8:42 a.m.:
I handed in my resignation at my dead-end tech support job in a Palo Alto office park. The clock on the wall ticked like it knew something I didn’t. Slid the envelope onto my manager’s desk—empty, his coffee mug cold, the air stale with toner and regret. No ceremony. Just me, a folder called Somehuck on my laptop, and a dream in four slides.

9:00 a.m.:
Unemployed. No salary. No safety net. Just a vision to make cities move faster, starting with Palo Alto’s crowded streets. Somehuck: a logistics app for small businesses, for the dreamers Silicon Valley forgot. Named it after Huck Finn, chasing freedom on a river, and “some,” like some guy, some chance, some hope.

Claire waited in our beat-up Honda outside, parked near Stanford’s campus, where tech bros in hoodies hustled to pitch nights. Her grey sweater hugged her shoulders, nervous but warm. “Is it done?” she asked, her smile a mix of fear and faith.
“Done,” I said, gripping her hand.
We were in this together, betting it all on a Palo Alto pipe dream.

We drove past taquerías and bike shops on El Camino Real, the Valley’s pulse loud in my ears. Everything felt raw, exposed, like I’d shed my skin. Freedom wasn’t flying—it was falling, and I’d chosen the drop.

2:30 a.m.:
Couldn’t sleep. Our Palo Alto apartment—cramped, overpriced, smelling of Claire’s lavender candle—felt too small for the ideas in my head. Opened my laptop, the glow lighting up the dark. Added buzzwords to the deck: scalable, last-mile efficiency, urban logistics revolution. Empty words, but they felt like a map to somewhere big.

Why Somehuck? Because it was me—some guy from East Palo Alto, raised on Mom’s tamales and hustle, chasing a Silicon Valley dream. Like Huck Finn, floating away from a life I couldn’t stand. It was a name you’d remember, a name that screamed, “We’re different.”

3:15 a.m.:
Walked Palo Alto’s empty streets, past Stanford’s red-tiled roofs and tech billboards. The air was cool, sharp with eucalyptus. Passed my old office, lights still on, some poor soul still chained to a desk. Sat on a bench near a taquería, opened my notes app, typed:
“Somehuck is for the runners, the dreamers, the ones who know what it’s like to escape.”

Saved it. Hands cold, heart racing. Not hope exactly, but motion. In Silicon Valley, motion was everything.

One day in, and I was a founder.
Palo Alto didn’t care yet.
But I’d make it.

Chapter 2: The First Package

by Ethan Cole

I didn’t expect my first delivery to be a plastic bag of handmade dresses, tied with a hairband, handed to me outside a Palo Alto café.

10:17 a.m.:
Daniela, 22, ran a clothing brand from her Instagram, all vintage patterns and big dreams. Met her at Philz Coffee on University Avenue, her earrings jangling as she handed me the bag. “Three dresses,” she said, eyes bright. “My bestseller. Customer’s in San Jose, needs them tomorrow.”
Didn’t care about my pitch or Somehuck’s vision. Just wanted her buyer happy.

No app. No dashboard. Just me, Daniela’s Venmo payment, and her brand name scrawled in Sharpie. Day one, and Somehuck was real—because of her.

11:03 a.m.:
Rain hit Palo Alto, soaking my hoodie as I walked five kilometers to the bus terminal near Stanford Shopping Center. No courier badge, no contract, just a story and $20 cash for the driver. “Take care of it,” I said, handing over the bag.
He raised an eyebrow, like I was selling him a scam. “I’ll make it work,” I promised.

12:44 p.m.:
Texted Daniela: “Package on its way. Arrives tomorrow morning.”
Her reply: “You’re a lifesaver, Ethan! Keep me posted.”
Her words lit me up, brighter than Palo Alto’s neon signs.

Back at the apartment, Claire was grading papers, her glasses slipping down her nose. “How’d it go?” she asked, smiling.
“Delivered,” I said, grinning like I’d cracked a code.
She hugged me, her warmth grounding me. “That’s my founder,” she whispered.
For a moment, Silicon Valley felt conquerable.

9:22 p.m.:
Added a slide to the deck at our kitchen table, Palo Alto’s traffic humming outside: “Somehuck: Empowering small businesses like Daniela’s to reach every city.”
No team yet, no funding, but a spark. Daniela’s trust was fuel.

Claire leaned over, her hand on mine. “This is just the start, Ethan.”
Her faith, her touch, made Palo Alto’s pressure feel worth it. Mom’s voice, always lurking, didn’t call today. No “mijo, go back to your job.” Just Claire and me, dreaming in a city built on dreams.

One delivery, one step.
In Silicon Valley, that’s enough to keep running.

Chapter 3: The First Pitch

by Ethan Cole

My first pitch was a disaster dressed in optimism.

2:15 p.m.:
Palo Alto’s CoLab co-working space smelled of espresso and startup egos. Four investors sat across from me, three already bored, one scrolling Twitter. Michael, a friend-of-a-friend, had promised they were “logistics-friendly.” I’d rehearsed the deck 40 times, ironed my only button-up, arrived 25 minutes early. Silicon Valley demanded perfection, and I was trying.

Opened with: “I’m Ethan Cole, building Somehuck, a tech-powered courier platform for small businesses, starting right here in Palo Alto. We make cities move faster, cheaper, for dreamers like Daniela.”
Slide two: a Bay Area map. Slide three: projections I half-believed. Slide four: Daniela’s delivery story, her Sharpie-scrawled bag.

2:27 p.m.:
Glasses Guy interrupted. “What’s your moat?”
“Trust,” I said. “We’re for the underdogs.”
“IP?”
“Not yet.”
“Network effect?”
“Building it.”
“Revenue?”
“One delivery. But growing.”
He smirked, sipped his latte. “Good luck.”

The room went quiet. My slides felt like paper planes crashing. “Interesting,” one said—Silicon Valley code for “no.” They’d “circle back.” Spoiler: they didn’t.

3:01 p.m.:
Walked out, past Stanford students pitching apps on Sand Hill Road. Texted Claire: “Pitched. They listened. Didn’t care.”
Her reply: “I care, Ethan. So proud. Keep going.”
Her words were oxygen in Palo Alto’s thin air.

Sat at a taquería on California Avenue, the smell of carne asada like Mom’s kitchen. Mom hadn’t called yet, but I felt her voice: “Mijo, this is foolish.” Ignored it. Opened the deck, deleted two slides, added one: “Somehuck: We don’t start with trucks. We start with trust, for Palo Alto’s dreamers.”

No funding, one delivery, but Claire’s faith kept me grounded. Silicon Valley was brutal, but I was still in the game.

First pitch, first scar.
In Palo Alto, scars are just the start.

Chapter 4: The Call

by Ethan Cole

It started with an email, subject: “Re: Somehuck Deck from a Friend.”

9:14 a.m.:
Almost deleted it, thinking it was another Palo Alto pitch rejection. But I opened it: “Ethan, I like the problem you’re solving. Small businesses need this. Let’s talk. – Victoria Hale.”
Googled her: ex-banker, three startup exits, now an angel investor on Sand Hill Road. Brutal but generous. Funded apps I envied.

Replied in 20 seconds: “Victoria, thrilled to connect. Available anytime—literally.” Tried for cool, landed on desperate. She set a call for Friday, 10:30 a.m.

Thursday, 11:59 p.m.:
Didn’t sleep. Practiced the pitch in our Palo Alto apartment, Claire quizzing me between sips of chamomile tea. “Why you, Ethan?” she asked, mimicking an investor.
“Because I’m the guy who walked five kilometers in the rain for Daniela’s dresses,” I said.
She laughed, kissed my forehead. “That’s my founder.”

Friday, 10:30 a.m.:
Victoria’s voice was ice and steel. “Why now? Why Somehuck? What’s your edge?”
I answered, heart pounding: “Small businesses are ignored by big logistics. We’re their lifeline, starting in Palo Alto.”
She cut in: “Worst part of your model?”
“No scale yet,” I admitted. “But we’re lean, like Daniela’s brand.”
She laughed—once, sharp. “You remind me of a founder I backed. Burned out in a year.”

Silence. Then: “But he was worth a bet.”
Call ended at 10:49 a.m. No promises, just: “Keep in touch.” In Silicon Valley, that’s a maybe.

11:02 a.m.:
Texted Claire: “Call done. She didn’t hang up.”
Her reply: “That’s huge! You’re killing it.”
Smiled, but Mom’s voice crept in from her last call: “Mijo, this tech nonsense won’t last.” Ignored it. Palo Alto’s air felt electric.

9:17 p.m.:
Sat on our balcony, Stanford’s lights in the distance. Added a slide: “Somehuck: Built for Palo Alto’s dreamers, by one of them.”
Claire leaned against me, her warmth a promise. Silicon Valley was watching, and I was ready.

No money yet, but a crack of hope.
In Palo Alto, a crack’s enough to build on.

Chapter 5: Late Again

by Ethan Cole

Eighteen months in, Palo Alto’s shine was fading.

10:47 p.m.:
Missed dinner again. Claire’s plate of tamales—her attempt at Mom’s recipe—sat cold in the microwave. Our apartment off University Avenue smelled of her floral shampoo and my failure. Lights off, her bedroom door shut. No text, no call, just silence heavier than Silicon Valley’s expectations.

Wasn’t out drinking. Was at a Palo Alto co-working space, battling a printer spitting out blurry flyers for a pitch I’d probably bomb. Startup life, 18 months in: not pitching to VCs on Sand Hill Road, but cursing a toner cartridge in a fluorescent-lit hell.

11:12 p.m.:
Ate alone, fork scraping the plate. Thought of a night a year ago, Claire up at 3 a.m. with me, laughing as I debugged a mockup. “You’ll make it, Ethan,” she said, her hand warm on my shoulder. Her faith was my fuel then. Now, her silence was a warning.

Mom called Claire yesterday, her voicemail on speaker when I got home. “Claire, he’s lost, mijo. Eighteen months, and he’s still chasing this app? He had a job, a future. Make him stop.”
Claire’s reply was tired: “He believes in Somehuck, Mom. I’m trying to believe too.”
Her voice cracked, like she was holding a rope unraveling after 18 months.

1:03 a.m.:
Opened my laptop, refreshed the dashboard—five deliveries this week, flat. Checked the deck, slides stale. Typed in my notes app: “Eighteen months. Is love still love when it’s waiting for a win that never comes?”
Didn’t save it. Stared at the screen, Palo Alto’s traffic humming outside.

7:44 a.m.:
Claire made coffee, no words. Her eyes avoided mine, her phone buzzing with texts she didn’t open. “I know this matters,” she said finally, voice flat. “But I miss us, Ethan.”
“I’m here,” I lied.
“Are you?” she asked, grabbing her bag for work.
Her words clung to me, heavier than Mom’s pity.

Walked to a Stanford pitch night, saw Daniela there, her brand now in three cities. “You started this, Ethan,” she said, hugging me. Her trust kept me going, but Claire’s distance and Mom’s voice—“Mijo, you’re wasting your life”—were louder.

Eighteen months, and Palo Alto was a treadmill.
Somehuck was alive, but love was starving, one missed tamale dinner at a time.

Chapter 6: The Wire

by Ethan Cole

Two years in, the money hit like a Silicon Valley mirage.

10:32 a.m.:
$50,000 landed in the account. A notification on my phone: “Deposit received.” Refreshed it thrice, heart pounding in our Palo Alto apartment. Victoria Hale’s text followed: “Wire sent. Convertible note, terms attached. One year to grow, or I call it back. Don’t waste it, Ethan.”
Her words were a lifeline and a guillotine.

Signed the docs—$50,000, repayable with interest in 12 months if Somehuck didn’t scale. Two years of pitching in Palo Alto’s co-working spaces, and now a clock was ticking.

10:49 a.m.:
Claire was in the kitchen, stirring coffee, hair in a messy bun. “We got it,” I said, grinning like I’d cracked Silicon Valley’s code.
“The money?” she asked, eyes wide.
“Fifty grand. Victoria.”
Her smile was thin, not like year one. “That’s huge, Ethan. For us.”
“For us,” I echoed, but her pause lingered, heavy with two years of waiting.

Mom called Claire last night, her voice on voicemail: “Two years, Claire, and he’s still playing startup? He had a career, mijo. Stop him.”
Claire’s reply was soft: “He’s close, Mom. I can’t pull him back now.”
But her eyes, when she looked at me, held doubt, fraying after two years.

11:59 p.m.:
Couldn’t sleep, adrenaline burning. Sat at our kitchen table, Palo Alto’s lights flickering outside. Created a folder: “Somehuck V1.0.” Sketched hiring plans, payment flows, a rollout for Bay Area cities. Designed courier uniforms in Canva, imagined Somehuck bikes on El Camino Real. Drafted a fake TechCrunch post: “Somehuck hits 10 cities, trusted by thousands.”

2:17 a.m.:
Paused, ceiling fan spinning slow. Whispered to the dark: “I can’t fuck this up.”
Two years ago, broke meant freedom. Now, Victoria’s note meant Claire’s hope, Mom’s pity, and Silicon Valley’s eyes were on me.

Mom’s voice echoed: “You’re chasing ghosts, mijo.”
Claire’s faint smile flashed, her faith thinning. Typed in my notes app: “Two years. Somehuck’s alive. I’m alive. Palo Alto will see.”
Saved it. Chest ached, a dull warning I ignored.

Money was power in Silicon Valley.
But two years in, I learned power comes with chains.

Chapter 7: The Build

by Ethan Cole

Two and a half years in, Somehuck felt like a Silicon Valley startup, not just a Palo Alto dream.

8:22 a.m.:
Used Victoria’s $50,000 to hire a team in a Menlo Park co-working space, glass walls and a coffee machine hissing like it knew we were faking it. Jake, a Stanford dropout coder, all bravado, said, “I’ll make this app sing.” Lila, marketing, ex-Uber hustler, pitched viral campaigns with a smile too sharp. Tom, logistics, a grizzled Bay Area trucker, grumbled, “I’ve seen startups die faster than this.” Mike, my East Palo Alto childhood friend, joined for loyalty, quiet but steady.

Signed a lease for a corner office, concrete floors, Palo Alto skyline outside. Ordered Somehuck hoodies, stickers, posters: “Move fast. Deliver trust.” “Somehuck: Palo Alto’s pulse.”
Jake laughed: “Kinda corny, Ethan.”
“It’s branding,” I shot back, grinning. Silicon Valley loved branding.

12:09 p.m.:
Claire visited, bringing Philz Coffee, her smile strained. “Looks real,” she said, eyeing the hoodies.
“It is,” I said. “We’re building something big.”
She hugged me, but her arms felt distant, two and a half years of late nights wearing her down. “Don’t forget us,” she whispered.
My chest tightened, not pain, just guilt.

Mom called Claire last night, her voice on voicemail: “Two years, Claire, and he’s dragging you into this? Mijo’s lost in Palo Alto’s madness.”
Claire’s reply: “He’s fighting for us, Mom.” But her eyes, scanning the office, held doubt, heavier now.

3:47 p.m.:
First team meeting, tensions already high. Jake demanded servers: “App’s slow as hell.” Lila pushed Instagram ads: “We’re invisible in Silicon Valley.” Tom scoffed: “Fifteen deliveries? That’s a hobby, not a company.” Mike nodded, silent, sketching routes on a napkin. I said, “We’ll hit 20 next week.”
Jake snorted. “Good luck.”

9:14 p.m.:
Stayed late, office empty, Palo Alto’s lights glittering. Tweeted: “Somehuck’s live. 15 deliveries this week. Bay Area, we’re coming.” Three likes: Claire, Daniela, a random. Mom’s voice echoed: “Two and a half years, mijo, and this is it?”
Claire’s hug lingered, her doubt a shadow.

Typed in my notes app: “Two and a half years. Team’s here. Palo Alto’s watching. We’ll prove them wrong.”
Chest ached, stress, I thought. Ignored it. Silicon Valley didn’t sleep, and neither would I.

Somehuck was alive in Palo Alto’s heart.
Two and a half years, and I believed we could win.
But belief was starting to taste like desperation.

Chapter 8: Cracks

by Ethan Cole

Two years, seven months in, Somehuck was fracturing in Palo Alto’s pressure cooker.

9:03 a.m.:
Email from our biggest client, a San Jose boutique: “Switching to a competitor. Good luck.” No name, just gone. The office, once buzzing, felt like a sinking ship on Sand Hill Road. Jake slammed his laptop: “Underfunded piece of crap!” Tom barked: “Fifteen deliveries? We’re a joke!” Lila leaned close, voice low: “We need a win, Ethan. I’m here.” Her hand brushed mine, too deliberate. Mike stared at his phone, already half-gone.

“We’ll find another client,” I said, voice hollow. Lila’s eyes lingered, too warm. “I believe in you,” she said, her smile a pull I didn’t want. Stepped back, heart racing. Needed Claire, not her.

10:22 a.m.:
Pitched to two VCs at a Stanford meetup, both rejects. “No traction,” one said. “No moat,” said the other. Silicon Valley’s doors were slamming, and Somehuck was bleeding—paychecks late, bank account red.

1:27 p.m.:
Claire called, voice sharp. “Your mom called. Says the office is chaos. And Lila—she’s always there, Ethan.”
“It’s work,” I said, stomach twisting. Her texts had been vague lately, late-night “meetings” she didn’t explain. Just stress, I told myself. She’d never cheat.
“Two years, Ethan. I’m tired of sharing you with her.”
“Claire, it’s not like that.”
Her silence was a blade, two and a half years deep.

Mom’s voicemail to Claire: “He’s ruining you, Claire. Two years in Palo Alto’s madness, and what? Tell him to quit.” Her pity burned, worse now. Claire’s jealousy was new, a fire I couldn’t put out.

3:19 p.m.:
Lila stayed late, leaning over my desk, her perfume sharp. “We can fix this, Ethan. New campaign, you and me, tonight.” Her fingers grazed my arm, eyes too close.
“Claire’s waiting,” I said, standing fast, coffee spilling. “I’m married, Lila.”
She shrugged, unfazed. “Just trying to save Somehuck. You’re worth it.”

Outside, a courier on a bike, no logo, just a phone app connecting him to a job. Simple, lean, not Somehuck’s bloated mess. UrbbyApp, I’d heard—Palo Alto’s new darling, no offices, no fleets, just couriers on demand.

8:46 p.m.:
Jake quit, email blunt: “I’m out.” Tom threatened to leave. Mike barely showed. Lila stayed, typing ads for free. Chest burned, sharper now, blamed it on Palo Alto’s stress.

Typed in my notes app: “Two years, seven months. Client gone. Team cracking. Claire’s slipping. Lila’s too close. Somehuck’s dying in Palo Alto.”

The Valley didn’t care.
Two and a half years, and Somehuck was crumbling, taking me with it.

Chapter 9: The Edge

by Ethan Cole

Two years, eight months in, Somehuck was a Palo Alto graveyard, and I was digging my own plot.

7:58 a.m.:
Walked into chaos in our Menlo Park office. Tom yelled at Lila: “Your ads are trash! Fifteen deliveries, down from last month!” Lila snapped: “Fix your routes, old man!” Mike had quit, no note, just gone. Jake was half-checked out, coding with headphones on. I stood there, the “founder,” voiceless in Silicon Valley’s storm.

Lila turned to me, eyes blazing. “Ethan, we need to talk. Alone. I can save this.” Her hand touched mine, too long, too warm. “Later,” I said, stepping back, heart pounding. Needed Claire, not her, but Lila was all I had to keep Somehuck alive.

9:14 a.m.:
Pitched to another VC on Sand Hill Road. “No scale,” he said, cutting me off. “Come back with traction.” Third rejection this week. Silicon Valley was a closed door, and Somehuck was out of time.

10:14 a.m.:
Claire texted: “Mom called again. Says you’re failing us. And Lila—what’s going on, Ethan?”
“Nothing,” I replied. “I love you.” No answer. Her late nights, her “client dinners,” were just stress, I told myself. She wouldn’t cheat. Not Claire.

Mom’s call to Claire, overheard from Lila: “He’s dragging you down, Claire. Two years, eight months in Palo Alto, and he’s broke? Stop him.” Lila added, “Your mom’s telling everyone you’re done, Ethan.” Her pity was a noose, tightening.

2:33 p.m.:
Bank account: negative $2,189. Victoria emailed: “Ethan, the note’s overdue. Pay the $50,000 plus interest, or we go to court.” Ignored it. Tom stormed out: “I’m not your charity case!” Lila stayed, typing ads, unpaid but relentless.

6:49 p.m.:
Office empty, just me and Lila. She slid a mockup across my desk, her hand lingering. “Ethan, we’re close. Let’s work tonight, just us. We can turn this around.” Her voice dropped, intimate, her eyes locked on mine.
“Lila, I can’t,” I said, chair scraping back. “I’m married.”
“Are you?” she asked, stepping closer, her perfume suffocating. “Claire’s checked out, Ethan. I see you. I’d fight for this with you.”
My pulse raced, her words a pull, her closeness a fire. For a second, I wavered—her belief, her fight, so much like mine. Then Claire’s face flashed, her smile from year one.
“No,” I said, firm, stepping back. “This is for Claire. For Somehuck.”
Lila sighed, nodded. “Your loss.”

Outside, a courier biked by, phone buzzing with a job from UrbbyApp—no logo, no office, just a lean platform connecting people to couriers. Somehuck was dying, bloated and broken, at 15 deliveries.

Chest burned, a stab I ignored. Typed in my notes app: “Two years, eight months. No money. No team. Claire’s fading. Lila’s too much. Palo Alto’s killing Somehuck. And me.”

The edge was here, and Silicon Valley was pushing me off.
Somehuck was my fight, but I was losing everything.

Chapter 10: The Burn

by Ethan Cole

Three years in, Somehuck burned to the ground in Palo Alto’s merciless churn.

8:11 a.m.:
Email from the landlord: “Eviction notice. Rent unpaid, 60 days.” Bank account: negative $3,472. Victoria’s email, unopened: “Note’s overdue, Ethan. Pay $50,000 plus interest, or face legal action.” The convertible note, a year past due, was a noose tightening in Silicon Valley’s shadow.

9:02 a.m.:
Called Lila into the Menlo Park office, glass walls smudged, posters curling. “We’re done,” I said, voice breaking. “Somehuck’s over.”
Her eyes softened, then hardened. “You’re giving up, Ethan. We could’ve saved it.” Her hand reached for mine, one last pull.
“I love Claire,” I said, pulling back. “I’m sorry.”
She left a mockup on the desk, walked out, no goodbye. Silicon Valley didn’t care about goodbyes.

10:47 a.m.:
Texted Claire: “It’s over. I’m coming home. I need you.” No reply. Her “client dinners” lately, her vague excuses—I told myself it was stress, not another man. Three years, and her silence was louder than Palo Alto’s traffic.

Mom’s last call to Claire, overheard last week: “Three years, mijo, and you’ve lost it all. Even Claire. Come home.” Her pity was a weight, crushing me in East Palo Alto’s memory.

1:22 p.m.:
Ripped down the posters: “Move fast. Deliver trust.” Tore them to shreds, glass walls watching. Boxed up laptops, Somehuck hoodies, dreams. Outside, a courier on a bike, no bag, just a phone with UrbbyApp’s app—lean, simple, connecting jobs to riders. Not Somehuck, with its 15-delivery peak and bloated hopes.

4:09 p.m.:
Claire called, voice ice. “You let it destroy us, Ethan. Three years, and you chose Lila, that office, over me.”
“Lila’s gone,” I said. “It’s just me now. Come home, Claire.”
“Too late,” she said. Line dead. Chest burned, a blade twisting. Not an affair, I told myself. Just anger.

Mom’s words: “You threw away your life, mijo.” Claire’s silence, her jealousy over Lila, Victoria’s email, the eviction—all screamed failure in Palo Alto’s glare.

7:16 p.m.:
Sat on the office floor, boxes around me, Silicon Valley’s lights cold outside. Typed in my notes app: “Three years. Somehuck’s dead. Claire’s slipping. Mom’s right. Victoria’s coming. I’m nothing in Palo Alto.”

Saved it. Chest pain flared, sharp, ignored. Left the keys, walked into Palo Alto’s fog, a founder no one saw.

Three years, and Somehuck was ash.
Silicon Valley burned me, and I let it.

Chapter 11: The Ashes

by Ethan Cole

Three and a half years in, I was sifting through Palo Alto’s ashes.

9:06 a.m.:
Our University Avenue apartment was a tomb, too small, too quiet. Claire was there, but not really—her eyes dodged mine, her phone buzzing with texts she hid. “I’m trying,” I said, voice raw.
She nodded, barely, grabbed her bag. “I have a meeting,” she said, vague again. Just work, I told myself. Not someone else. Three years, and her silence was a wall I couldn’t scale.

Victoria’s lawyer emailed: “$50,000 plus interest. Due now. Legal action pending.” The convertible note, a Silicon Valley trap, choked me. No money, no job, just debt.

11:43 a.m.:
Mom called from East Palo Alto. Didn’t answer. Voicemail: “Mijo, three years, and you’re lost? Claire’s leaving, I can tell. Come home.” Her pity burned, tamales uneaten in the fridge, a reminder of her faith gone. Three and a half years, and she’d buried me.

2:17 p.m.:
Walked to a Palo Alto café, laptop heavy. Saw couriers outside, phones pinging with UrbbyApp jobs—no logos, no offices, just a platform connecting riders to deliveries. Silicon Valley’s new king, thriving where Somehuck failed. Twitter screamed: “UrbbyApp: Fastest in the Bay Area. #Disrupt” It stung, sharp as my chest pain.

Sat in the café, opened a new pitch deck. Hollow ideas, Somehuck’s ghost. Three years of failure, and I was still chasing Palo Alto’s dream.

4:52 p.m.:
Claire texted: “We need to talk, Ethan. I can’t do this anymore.” Chest burned, a warning I ignored. Replied: “I’ll fix it. Te amo.” No response. Her late nights weren’t an affair, I told myself. Just exhaustion.

8:31 p.m.:
Back at the apartment, Claire gone. Her coat missing, keys gone, a note: “I need space, Ethan. Three years is too long.” Chest pain flared, like a blade. Sat on the floor, laptop open, UrbbyApp’s site glowing: “Bay Area’s choice, no fleets, just people.” They’d raised millions, owned Silicon Valley.

Typed in my notes app: “Three and a half years. Claire’s gone. Mom’s right. Victoria’s waiting. UrbbyApp won. I’m nothing in Palo Alto.”

Somehuck was ashes, and so was I.
Silicon Valley moved on, leaving me behind.

Chapter 12: The Void

by Ethan Cole

Four years in, Palo Alto erased me.

8:23 a.m.:
The apartment was a crypt, Claire’s note—six months old—still on the counter: “I need space.” Her clothes gone, her lavender scent faded, replaced by Mom’s uneaten tamales. Texted her: “I miss you, mi amor.” No reply. Her “meetings” weren’t someone else, I told myself. Just anger. Four years, and I’d lost her to Silicon Valley’s grind.

Victoria’s lawyer emailed: “Final notice: $50,000 plus interest. Court date next month.” Bank account: $12.43. No job, no way out in Palo Alto’s ruthless game.

10:19 a.m.:
Job interview at a startup near Stanford. Wore my last clean shirt, tie a noose. “Somehuck?” the interviewer said. “Heard it crashed.”
“Didn’t work out,” I mumbled, seeing the Menlo Park office—posters torn, Lila’s last look.
“Silicon Valley’s tough,” he said, eyes elsewhere. Four years, and I was a warning sign.

Walked out, past couriers on bikes, phones buzzing with UrbbyApp jobs—no logos, no offices, just a platform winning Palo Alto. Billboard on El Camino Real: “UrbbyApp: Bay Area’s delivery, simple and fast.” They’d raised $10 million, TechCrunch said.

1:47 p.m.:
Mom called from East Palo Alto. Voicemail: “Mijo, four years, y nada? Claire’s gone. Come home, por favor.” Her tamales, her prayers, couldn’t save me. Four years, and she’d written my epitaph.

3:22 p.m.:
Sat at a Palo Alto diner, sketching a new app, leaner than Somehuck. Thought of Jake’s cocky code, Lila’s bold pitches, Tom’s gruff warnings, Mike’s quiet loyalty. Their ghosts mocked me, Silicon Valley’s failures. Every keystroke felt like sand slipping through.

4:32 p.m.:
Texted Claire: “I’m fixing this. Te amo.” No reply. Her silence cut deeper than Mom’s pity. Chest burned, ignored. Not an affair, I told myself. Just time.

7:55 p.m.:
Back at the apartment, alone. UrbbyApp ad on my phone: “Bay Area’s fastest. No fleets, just us.” Clicked it off, hands shaking. Typed in my notes app: “Four years. Claire’s gone. Mom’s lost hope. Victoria’s suing. UrbbyApp owns Palo Alto. I’m nothing.”

Four years, and Silicon Valley’s void swallowed me.
I was a ghost in Palo Alto, and no one cared.

Chapter 13: The Resurrection

by Ethan Cole

Four years, one month in, I saw her, and Palo Alto’s fog turned to fire.

2:31 p.m.:
Claire, behind glass at a Palo Alto restaurant on University Avenue, white linen and polished forks. Her hair in waves I used to touch, her laugh bright, her hand on a man in a tailored suit, silver in his hair, a tech mogul’s confidence. She smiled like three years of pain never existed.

I stood across the street, hoodie soaked in Silicon Valley’s drizzle, my reflection a wreck—dark circles, unshaven, broken. My chest hammered, not just pain, but betrayal. No, I told myself, she’s just angry, not with him. But her laugh said otherwise.

2:47 p.m.:
Walked fast, past Stanford’s red roofs, past UrbbyApp couriers, their phones pinging with jobs—no logos, no offices, just a platform owning Palo Alto. Billboards screamed: “UrbbyApp: Simple. Fast. Yours.” My dream, stolen by their simplicity.

3:18 p.m.:
Apartment dark, curtains drawn. Claire’s photo on the wall, her smile a lie. Opened my laptop, fans groaning. Created a folder: Somehuck_REBIRTH. Not a comeback—a resurrection. A middle finger to Claire, to UrbbyApp, to Palo Alto.

Slide 1: “Somehuck: A prophecy for the forgotten.” Slide 2: “We deliver redemption.” Slide 3: “Built by those who know loss.” My chest ached, sharp, ignored. This was bigger than pain.

4:26 p.m.:
Studied UrbbyApp’s site—no fleets, just a platform connecting couriers to customers. Simple, brutal, effective. I’d build leaner, fiercer. Typed taglines: “Somehuck: Not fast. Just real.” My fingers bled, knuckles raw, but I didn’t stop.

6:03 p.m.:
New slide: “We’re not UrbbyApp. We’re the ones who stayed.” Claire’s laugh echoed, her hand on his arm. She’d see my name again, regret leaving. Mom’s voice: “Mijo, you’re killing yourself.” Wrong. I was becoming immortal.

7:22 p.m.:
Called Tom, Jake, Mike. All gone—voicemail, disconnected, silent. Claire: blocked. Perfect. This was mine. Typed in my notes app: “Somehuck rises. Palo Alto will kneel.” Named it Manifesto. Silicon Valley would study this one day.

8:39 p.m.:
Ate peanut butter from a jar, tasteless. UrbbyApp’s news: three new cities. They called it a “delivery revolution.” Cute. I’d started this fight, bled first in Palo Alto’s streets.

10:52 p.m.:
Blog post in Google Docs: “Somehuck isn’t packages. It’s people like me—unseen, underestimated, unbroken. We built bridges with broken bones in Silicon Valley’s shadow.” Goosebumps. Claire would read this and flinch.

Palo Alto forgot me, but I’d make it remember.
Somehuck was my resurrection, and I was burning alive for it.

Chapter 14: The Mania

by Ethan Cole

Four years, two months in, Palo Alto’s fog fueled my madness.

1:13 a.m.:
Couldn’t sleep. Claire’s laugh haunted me—her hand on his chest, her eyes bright for a Silicon Valley king. Not me, the Palo Alto failure who printed pitch decks in year one while she cheered. Now she was his, and I was nobody.

1:56 a.m.:
Paced our apartment, past Mom’s uneaten tamales, past Claire’s empty closet. Looked in the mirror—red eyes, greasy hair, a face Palo Alto chewed up. Slammed my fist into the glass. It didn’t break. I did.

2:09 a.m.:
Found Daniela’s note from year one, crumpled in a drawer: “You’re a lifesaver, Ethan.” Read it ten times, Sharpie smudged but real. Whispered, “I matter.” Screamed, “I FUCKING MATTER!” to Palo Alto’s silence.

2:32 a.m.:
Laptop on, fingers flying. Code, slides, taglines. Somehuck 2.0 wasn’t an app—it was a war. Against Claire’s betrayal, UrbbyApp’s simplicity, Mom’s pity: “Mijo, you’re dying in Palo Alto.” Wrong. I was alive, burning.

3:11 a.m.:
New slogan: “Somehuck: Not fast. Just the only one who gives a damn.” Another: “For the dreamers Silicon Valley forgot.” Tears fell, not weakness—prophecy. Claire would see my name in TechCrunch, whisper it in regret.

3:37 a.m.:
Imagined the headline: “Somehuck, Palo Alto’s Phoenix, Rises.” Forbes, Wired, Stanford lectures. UrbbyApp’s site mocked me—no offices, just a platform. I’d build leaner, fiercer, in Palo Alto’s heart.

4:01 a.m.:
Typed in my notes app: “Success is my revenge. Palo Alto will bow.” Chest burned, a branding iron in my ribs. Popped aspirin, laughed through the pain. Claire ran, Mom buried me, but I stayed.

4:57 a.m.:
Twenty slides, a landing page, three ads. Not a prototype—a gospel. Saw an UrbbyApp courier outside, phone pinging, no logo, just speed. Smiled. They didn’t know I was coming.

Palo Alto slept, but I was awake.
Somehuck was my mania, and I’d burn Silicon Valley to prove it.

Chapter 15: The Collapse

by Ethan Cole

Five years in, Palo Alto’s fog swallowed me whole.

6:42 p.m.:
For a moment, I felt calm. Somehuck 2.0 lived in my head, a weapon to kill UrbbyApp’s simplicity. Cleaned the apartment, burned old pitch decks on the balcony, ashes drifting over Palo Alto’s streets. The past was gone. I had a blueprint.

7:13 p.m.:
Ordered Mom’s carne asada via UrbbyApp, from her East Palo Alto kitchen to our Valencia Street apartment. Their app was seamless—no fleets, just a courier’s phone pinging. I hated it, admired it, feared it. But I’d outbuild it.

7:36 p.m.:
A teenage courier dropped off the foil container. “Your mom says hi,” he said, UrbbyApp’s app glowing on his phone. Nodded, shut the door. The carne asada sat untouched, its smell a ghost of Mom’s kitchen, my childhood.

8:01 p.m.:
Opened a doc: Somehuck 2.0. No warehouses, no logos, just couriers like UrbbyApp, but fiercer, human. Sketched flows, UI, taglines: “Somehuck: Built for the invisible, by one of them.” Typed like a man possessed, Palo Alto’s lights mocking me outside.

Claire would see this, flinch at my name on TechCrunch. Her new man, her new life—irrelevant. I was avenging five years of Silicon Valley’s rejection.

8:44 p.m.:
Chest pain hit, a knife twisting. Stumbled, grabbed the table, breathed. It passed, or I lied to myself. Kept typing.

9:17 p.m.:
Final slide: “Somehuck: Palo Alto’s forgotten, delivered.” Whispered it aloud, my legacy. The cursor blinked, waiting.

9:29 p.m.:
A pop in my chest, like a cable snapping. Knees hit the floor, hard. Gasped, no sound. Reached for my phone, knocked it away. The carne asada sat there, cold, accusing.

Whispered, “Claire…” or maybe “Somehuck…”
The screen glowed, cursor blinking. Palo Alto didn’t stop.

10:01 p.m.:
Silence. The laptop slept. So did I.

---

Postscript (Unknown Author)

Two weeks later.

A neighbor on Valencia Street reported a smell. Police found a man in Unit 907-B, dead from a cardiac event. No struggle, no forced entry. Just a burnt laptop, a melted charger, and cold carne asada.

Listed as John Doe 147-B, late 30s, heart failure, time of death between 8:45 and 10:30 p.m. No ID, no family. A Palo Alto news blurb: “Unidentified Man Found Dead.” No leads.

His mother called, but his number was dead. Claire, remarried, had blocked him. No one came. Buried in a city-funded grave outside Palo Alto, no headstone, no name.

Somehuck died too, unlaunched, lost in a burned hard drive.
Ethan wanted immortality, but Silicon Valley forgot him.
Palo Alto kept delivering, without a trace of his fight.